


a holy (not a broken) hallelujah

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, First Time, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27832861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: From thekink meme:  Aziraphale has been raped sometime in the past. Crowley knows this and loves him and wants him to be happy. When the two of them make love for the first time (at Aziraphale’s request) Crowley is slow and sweet, constantly asking Aziraphale if he’s alright, if they need to stop, etc. When things finally get going, it turns into the sappiest schmoopiest lovemaking ever."Absolution. It was like that; absolution from the guilt. Just for a minute, just for a bit of time. It had not been his fault."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	a holy (not a broken) hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> I went a little off the road with the prompt, and it's a bit rawer than I initially intended, but the story asked me to, and what am I if not a servant of stories? 
> 
> [ come say hi to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/__Lock) and/or [tumblr](https://bebrave-andbekind.tumblr.com/), I always need new friendssssss ]

It was not like he could forget, but sometimes it would get fuzzier around the edges for long stretches of time, even decades, during which his skin would loosen up a bit, hugging his bones instead of suffocating him. He would feel free then, made of cherry blossom and bird songs, he would be sure of God's love – he hated how fleeting his Faith was, how easy it was for it to start trembling, leaving him naked, wires and holes and half-eaten prayers under the scrutiny of an unforgiving sun. But then for decades he would be made new again, and the scar would be just an old pain on the side of his ankle and he could get through the day.

//

It was Crowley who found him bloody, crying, broken. He couldn't believe he had let it happen to him. A human-made a deal with a demon, a human he had loved something sweet, a feeling embroidered around his bellybutton. (it would be so hard to understand the human had not loved him back. He would rewind then memories again and again, trying to pinpoint what he had done wrong, which one of his stories had led him on. There was no stain on the film, Crowley made he understood. He forced himself to believe it, to believe him, though it was hard.)

Crowley touched him and he screamed and started sobbing until he recognized his old friend. Crowley, face contorted in lines too hurt, too pitiful, asked him if he could touch him, just to help him get up from the dirty floor of the alley, but the human had stolen his voice along with something he once had between his lungs, so he opened his mouth to let out nothing but a shaking breath.

Crowley snapped his fingers, miracling them in his apartment, warm bordering on hot, hardwood and grey marble with black and white spots. Crowley asked him if he wanted to take a bath, his voice as delicate as a ladybug's wings, and he felt his body being slowly lowered in the bathtub, still clothed, and it tinged the water pink, and he started sobbing, his stomach hurting so much its presence was unbearable. Crowley was at his side, changing the water. His clothes, wet and heavy, were cold on his skin, but he could not peel them off. It would be too much of a hassle – besides, he was a sinner, a tempter. He didn't deserve nice, dry clothes.

Crowley called his name (so softly it was unbearable, the pain of fragile glass in a thunderstorm), he helped him out the bathtub, he put him in soft pyjamas and under a soft duvet, though he didn't deserve any of that, and sat on the opposite side of the bed. He asked for music (one, two words, scratchy and unfamiliar) and immediately the air was interlaced with violins. He drifted to sleep because he couldn't bear another minute.

He slept for three days, his mind deaf and pitch black. When he woke up, he was confused and frightened. When he saw Crowley, a crimson fury caught him, a poisonous rage full of hate for that demon who dared to see him like that. He miracled himself in his apartment before Crowley could speak a word, the rotten bastard. He holed himself up there for three months, trembling and fuming and snaring at his own shadow. The world smelled of old blood, and he too reeked of open scars.

//

Crowley came by one October afternoon, asking if he wanted to talk. He didn't, but let Crowley in the crowded living room and served him tea.

//

They didn't see each other for three years after that.

He opened the bookshop to have another safe haven, a place other than his home to be at peace. He needed something new, something clear. He thought about blessing it, but then he thought of Crowley: although he still resented him, he wanted his friend beside him. So he didn't

Crowley came by with flowers and chocolates and they sat in the back of the shop.

“I want to talk.”

He had been months since the last time he cried about it. But it burned, it burned, it burned; he needed water.

“Are you sure?”

Crowley's concern was beautiful as all heart things are. He didn't deserve it, but he wanted to so desperately.

“I need to.”

Crowley nodded. “I'm here, angel.”

//

It was nice, seeing his smile. It remembered him there were beautiful things in the world, something to hope for.

The apocalypse didn't come and now they were safe and together and Aziraphale felt light and free, tied to Crowley. (Crowley had given him his name back. That human had shredded it and eaten it, but Crowley had bought golden clay and modelled it with long and warm fingers, and had given it to him with a pink ribbon. Crowley stood by his side through it all: the tears, the screaming at two in the morning, the self-loathing and self-deprecation, the hurt. Crowley took the piece of his heart that had been scattered all around the globe, put them in his mouth until it was time to give it back to Aziraphale, whole and intact.)

“Crowley, darling,” he would say, stars powder on his tongue, and Crowley would be there with an adorable little crease between his eyebrows, and Aziraphale would kiss him just because he was happy, because they shared the same space, which shone like a whole different planet. Crowley would call him in the living room and start humming a tune and taking him in his arms to dance for hours. They would go out in the Bentley and drive to the Manchester Art Gallery to see old friends' faces. (humans didn't scare him any more; he never went near a dark alley again, though.) Crowley would surprise him with bath bombs and silk pillowcases and ankle massages. He would kiss him every morning and send him pictures when he was away. (they first kissed when they moved in together, over a box of comic books. Before Aziraphale could kiss him, Crowley took his hand and asked him if he was sure.

“I'm dying to kiss you since you saved my books. Since I watched you eat oysters, but I didn't know then.”

So they kissed and the world stopped to look at them.)

Crowley would hold him when he was curled up on the kitchen floor, his snack mixed with shreds of a flower plate, sobbing so much he would get a splitting headache afterwards because his mind wandered somewhere horrible and his chest was heavy and black and hungry for a piece of him – but Crowley would not ever allow that, never let something ripping a piece out of him, and he would hug him tight, just that, until Aziraphale would let him just dry his tears.

He never knew Crowley's voice could be smooth, with no spikes and bite. He would tell him how much he loved him, and talk about the squirrels he saw that morning stealing nuts from some children's hands and the tarte tatin he wanted to bake for dinner, was Aziraphale amenable to help him? He wasn't, because the world was too heavy but he didn't want to hate it and that was exhausting; that was fine, said Crowley, they would bake another day, the world was choke-full of days for them to bake together. Did he want a slice of apple? He did; Crowley held it to his lips, and kissed his temple as he chewed it.

Crowley could sing and had an exceptional memory for music: he remembered songs and melodies Aziraphale had forgotten and now would sing for days, sober and drunk and everything in between. They would discover a lot of new wines and liquors and sometimes get purposefully drunk on beer that tasted like shit because it seemed fun and they were dumb enough to believe it.

(he had drunk a lot, those three years alone. During his first visit, Crowley had thrown away all the bottles he could find around the bookshop and the apartment, those empty and those full. He had not scolded him, nor told him to stop drinking, he had not even looked at him with reproach in his eyes. “We're gonna find something better to do,” he had just said, voice steady with promises. “We should try photography.” Aziraphale couldn't look at him, couldn't move even his head. Now alcohol was good because it didn't taste like numbing mud.)

Crowley was dumb: he cried on pictures of puppies, he would trip on rocks on the road because he was too involved in some YouTube video or in trying to make a baby laugh (who then would laugh looking at him falling on the concrete floor), he would sometimes get so embarrassed by demonstrations of love he would land kisses on Aziraphale's eyes, and one time he was nervous and mixed up his miracles and boiled his beer and actually drank it – and then he cried.

They were dumb together: they would climb to the roof to see the stars and drink and they would sing so loudly the neighbours would come to shout at them. They both loved ice cream and they would always eat it so quickly the brain freeze would ricochet through their skull. Aziraphale was very ticklish and had forbidden Crowley to even just try to tickle him; but he would try anyway and Aziraphale would kick him in the face,

He loved Crowley; he loved him so much it took him years to understand it wasn't a sin – he knew love normally wasn't, but there was nothing normal about his storm, his hunger, the contours of which he couldn't see with the naked eye it was so enormous. He loved Crowley, he wanted Crowley – but he couldn't have him.

He would feel bad about sex and lust. It felt dirty. He would sit on Crowley's lap, during a lazy autumn afternoon, and hide in his neck just to try to stop thinking about slithering his hand in Crowley's trousers. He would cry at the thought of masturbation. He had had sex before and he thought that it had something to do with the accident. He had displeased God partaking in one of the capital sins.

Once, he confessed his thoughts to Crowley (December, the clear smell of snow, the throbbing scar ugly and cruel – it wasn't supposed to hurt when outside the garden was so pretty), and Crowley changed into a giant snake to comfort him better, his heavy body the perfect size to crush his worries. “I would kill God if She had been so cruel,” he hissed, as dangerous as an untamed sea monster. “You did nothing wrong. You're perfect, angel. You only deserve good things, and I will provide you with nothing but good things. And this is a threat. You should be scared of the magnitude of my love for you.”

He sobbed for too much happiness for the first time in his life.

//

“I want us to make love, Crowley.”

Body still, voice even stiller. He had thought about this, he was ready, he wanted to be. They were in their bed, September gentle outside the windows. Crowley had just changed into pyjama, a deep green one Aziraphale had gifted him for no reason at all besides he had liked it very much and thought it perfect for his love.

Crowley looked at him, the sweet honey of his irises glittering. He stroked his cheek. “Are you sure, angel? You know I don't actually need it, right? Kisses and cuddles are more than enough with you.”

He gulped. His heart was beating so hard it threatened to rip his chest and fall out. “I'm sure. I... I want to. I want _you_. Do you... do you want me?”

 _Even if I'm dirty and broken_ , his brain offered, but he shushed it. Crowley kissed his forehead. “Yes, angel. So very much, love.”

They smiled and started kissing, but they had to stop because they were giggling too much. He felt elated.

“You're stunning, angel. You're perfect.”

He shut his eyes, gritting his teeth, because he didn't believe it, but he knew Crowley would never lie to him. He climbed his lap and deepened the kiss, now hot and sticky.

“Can I touch you, angel?”

Aziraphale looked at him, and for a split second he panicked: touch him where? On the face? On the arms? On his -

“I'm going to describe what I want to do, angel, all right?” He nodded. “I want to slip my hands under your shirt. Nod if you're okay with that.”

He nodded and, oh, how deliciously cold Crowley's hands were. His smell was warm and heavy and deep, solid under his nails; he dragged them on Crowley's back, mapping and exploring the open fields of his skin.

“Can I kiss your neck?”

He nodded again. Crowley's lips were soft, delectable. Languid kisses from the ears to the shoulders, slow, slow. Aziraphale shuddered, gripping his shirt. He wanted more, more, more.

His stomach started growling, black tar boiling, its bubbles scorching his throat.

“Angel, love?”, said Crowley before he could get lost, treacherous head. “Do you want to stop? I won't be angry, I swear.”

Aziraphale bit his lips. ( _Danger! Danger! Danger!_ , shouted his brain. _Shut up!_ , he shouted back.) Although he loved being treated as something delicate, precious (he needed it, because it meant he was some value left in him) he was dying to be touched so deeply Crowley would be able to remodel his inner workings to his likings. “No, darling, no. I want you. I need you. Please, please.”

 _Shut me up_ , he didn't say, losing himself in hungry kisses, almost bites.

“Can I -”

“Darling, I'm okay until I say otherwise.”

Crowley's eyes shone with love and worry. Oh, how lucky he was, a love that was limitless. Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, his miracle, his never-ending treasure chest.

“You can't stop me worrying. I'm unstoppable. Speed demon, me.”

“I know, and I love you for this.”

“No, you got the meme wrong. It's I know this and I love you.”

They laughed a bit, a breathy and short thing that tickled their nose.

“I want to undress you,” said Aziraphale, “and I want you to undress me. Not at the same time, of course. I want to start first.”

He slid off Crowley's lap and squared up a bit. Crowley was looking at him and the sheer intensity of his adoration was a very much needed comfort he wrapped himself in. On his knees, he focused on his own body for a moment: his heart was beating fast, but it meant he still had a heart. He inhaled, then exhaled, and started unbuttoning Crowley's pyjama's shirt, revealing his thin chest, which he covered in reverent kisses. Crowley whimpered under his mouth, one hand in his hair, securing himself to him. (he felt worthy; he was of use for Crowley. He was loved and useful.) It felt good: he was in power, he decided the steps they were taking. _This could work_ , he thought. _I love him and I'm loved back. This I know, this I'm sure of. It is set in stone._

“ _A love that knows no bounds, no shame. They will talk about us.”_ )

“'s not fair,” whimpered Crowley, “that I'm the only one naked.”

Aziraphale smiled, offering himself to him. Crowley, carefully, maddening slowly, took his shirt off, and kissed every bit of newfound skin, particularly his right shoulder, wet kisses that made him shiver.

“Lemme see your back,” Crowley murmured, “I think it's feeling neglected, and we can't have that, can we?”

“Most certainly not.”

So he showed Crowley his back -

(the human shoved him against a wall; he scratched his back so badly he started to bleed, he got bruises and scabs he could not stop himself to pick as he wanted to bleed more as he deserved to bleed more _drip drip drip_ -)

“STOP!”, Aziraphale shrieked, blood ringing in his ears, “Stop stop stop stop! Please please stop please -” and then the air was punched out his lungs and he couldn't breathe any more. His body shut down completely. He was, once again, in the dark alley, the air around him reeked of pain, the human was mumbling something he had forgotten until now - “No no no!”, he shrieked again, those words were about to pierce him again, he was about to let them inside -

(“Oh, Aziraphale, you were tempting me so much, it was natural for me to -”)

“No!”, he was sobbing and shaking and he was breaking in pieces and he was completely alone -

“Love? My love, I'm here, listen to me, I'm with you, you're with me, my angel, you're not everywhere else -”

“No!”, he screamed. He couldn't recognize Crowley – where was he? Did he abandon him at last, had he finally realized Aziraphale was just a filthy, rotten slut? Just a little bitch in heat, just some filth he should have tossed to the streets centuries ago, he should have left in that alley – better yet, he should have tracked the human down, Crowley should have given him to that human, after all, he had wanted him so much he had made a deal with a demon -

 _Was Crowley that demon_? Was that the reason he had found him so quickly? Had he wanted him so much he would grant a human the power to rape him? Had Crowley hated him that much since he couldn't have him?

“Was it you, Crowley?”, Aziraphale heard himself say, his vocal cords' will completely detached from his own. _No, no, no,_ he didn't mean it, he didn't believe any of the lies his spoiled brain was feeding him, but his body had severed every contact. “Did you make a contract with Daniel?”

Crowley's eyes were huge with puzzlement and fearful confusion that Aziraphale's brain read as a confession. Why should he be scared if he wasn't guilty?

“Angel, you know very well I don't make -”

“Who else could have been? Who else, Crowley?”

“There were hundreds of demons in -”

“You found me too quickly. You knew where I was.”

“I – I just sensed you, angel, as I've done before -”

“Silence, serpent of Eden!”

The flame of his blinding white rage engulfed him, his wings thrashed everything around them – the lamps on their nigh stands crumpled into pieces, Crowley's tablet went against the wall, the mirror fell, shattering all over the floor – and countless eyes started staring at Crowley, not with light grey irises but with something more akin to a forest on fire. His flesh felt like burning paper, churned and a touch away from turning into ashes.

“ _You raped me_ , demon Crowley,” his voice was echoing, he was sure he was causing an earthquake in Tokyo, “because I didn't give in to your depraved desires and now I shall kill you as righteous revenge for your sins against a soldier of God, and in Her name -”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley was sobbing, his face blotchy and contorted in unbearable pain, trembling so hard his teeth were chattering and it was Aziraphale's fault. “I didn't do it, I swear!”

Aziraphale stopped, frozen in time. The world was crumbling under him, sulphur was drilling through his bones. He looked down at his quivering hands, where he found blood when his nails had punctured the skin, and now he was bleeding on the bed. The bed he shared with Crowley. Crowley who was shaking, the gold that had eaten the white in his eyes. He could see a hint of fangs, meaning Crowley was scared behind himself, and it was all his fault.

Reduced to a house of cards, Aziraphale collapsed on himself, raw to his bone marrow.

“I'm sorryyy...”, he pathetically whined, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry,” he said over and over again, although he was behind forgiveness, he had finally proven to Crowley and himself that he was an angel no more, he wasn't even a living being, he was a monstrous collection of mistakes, of spilt ink and putrefied milk, a black hole. He reeked of eldritch horrors, he didn't deserve the Earth, books, springs, Crowley –

He heard a banshee howl leaving his throat, scratching it like a sabre-toothed tiger.

“Angel, my love, please come back to me, you're fine, you're safe – breath, angel, breathe, you're safe...”

“I'm sorry,” he choked out, incapable of saying anything else, anything of worth, something that could try to defend him. His blood stopped flowing; his veins could snap every second, leaving his body a lifeless shell. That would serve him right.

“My darling -”

“Don't call me darling,” he sobbed, “I don't deserve you, leave me alone, please, leave me forever leave me here -”

“No.”

His voice was suddenly firm, the life-saving anchor during the tsunami that was destroying their surroundings, the violent lights of Aziraphale's mad rage still sizzling in the air. Aziraphale, still curled up, knees tight to his chest, couldn't look at him, couldn't face him; too hard, too cruel. He desperately wanted to. _Let me live, let me love him, let me live in peace, let me let me let me..._

“I won't leave you, I never will, I love you, you're my whole life -”

“I don't -” he wept, skinless and boneless, just a puddle of shattered, broken pieces, “I don't – why do you love me? How can you love me? How – after all I just said? I accused you – did you hear me? I was -”

“I can't do otherwise, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, his mouth full of milk and honey. He was a fireplace during a blizzard, the only working compass on the planet. “There's no other way to live, for me.”

“But _why_ ? I – I wanted to _kill_ you, Crowley, _I was ready to_ –“ he was fucked, he was completely fucked, there was no going back, he was doomed, “how can you love me?”

Before Crowley could answer, the flood came. There were no pieces inside of him any more, but viruses and infections. “I'm broken! You're not! I – you're scared of me! I was ready to kill you I'm a black hole I'm -”

“You're not -”

“You don't know!” He wondered how he was able to speak, he was feeling the furious tide about to seize him, “You don't live inside me, you don't -”

“But I know you better than you do! You're not what happened to you, you're you and nothing else! You're the same angel you were before the accident, you still love books and plays – Hamlet is a hit because you asked me, because of your love! You were the patron of so many artists and writers because you know that humans are better with art, you -”

“Those are actions, not what I am!”

“You do what you do because of what you are -”

Aziraphale wailed so hard Crowley had no choice but to hold him, just that. As he resigned to sob the black matter out, the time stretched around them inconsequentially, cloth over plate over cabbage over raven. Crowley's arms around him had the right weight, the right shape, and he didn't deserve that. He wanted to tell Crowley he should hate him, it would be in his rights, instead he asked if Crowley loved him. Nothing seemed as important, as fundamental for his survival.

“Of course, my love. I adore you. I love you, I love you, I love you.” Crowley didn't try to kiss him, he just held him as if he was precious, as if Crowley was afraid to lose him. It was dear, warm; a blessing. Crowley's arms were holier than church walls, he could hear bells around him ringing Hallelujah. He felt the urge to reborn bathed in Crowley's holy spirit.

“Could you kiss me, Crowley?”

“Doesn't seem the right time, angel.”

“But I'd like you to. I want you to. Please?”

Crowley looked at him and sighed, and Aziraphale flinched. His body was getting smaller and smaller around his paper-thin bones. “If you love me as much as you say -”

“Aziraphale, please, stop for a second and let me understand properly.”

He didn't want to leave his hold so he simply refused to. Crowley carded his fingers through his hair, silent. He could feel the drip-drip-drip of the world melting over his head.

“You just had the worst panic attack you've ever had. I'm not sure it was just panic, though, you completely dissociated fro a while.”

Aziraphale nodded, cuddling closer to Crowley's chest, hoping to be absorbed by him.

“I triggered it all by just touching you. How can I agree to start again?”

“Because I want to.”

“It's not enough for me, love. You seem just desperate for -”

“I want you to rewrite it,” he sobbed out, fully realizing it for the first time. “I need you to take it away and put it new in me. I can't forget -”

“Love -”

“Let,” he hiccuped, “let me finish, please,” he begged, wet and ugly, his throat full of thorns, “there's nothing either of us can do for what happened,” a lump of coal, the bitter taste embedded in his teeth. Let me speak, let me leave. “other than – other than reminding me it works. That it can work, that – I need you to bless it, my own, I need to know if it can be a good thing, please, just – please, Crowley...”

A long, pregnant pause. Crowley was stroking the palm of his hand, lazy circles with his thumb. “I need you to be completely sincere with me at every moment. Can you do that for me, angel?”

He nodded, and Crowley kissed his head, inhaling his scent. “You've put on the new lotion I've bought you. Suits you.”

Aziraphale whimpered, kissed the hollow of his throat, lovely and deep. “I love it, thank you, dear.”

“Peach,” a kiss on the shoulder, “cream,” a kiss on the neck, “flowers as yellow as my eyes. I'm all over you.”

“You are, always.”

Crowley's arms were lazily around his waist, and he offered his mouth to his darling, whose kisses smelled a bit like pepper now, the tiniest trace of fangs over his lips. Aziraphale climbed onto his lap, hugged his beck, chest to chest. Oh, how real all of this was, not just one of his fantasies when he would cry in shame, in guilt, for hoping for something better than what he already had – how ungrateful of him he had always believed it was.

Lips, tongue, teeth. Ragged breath, warming skin. It was real, heavy between his shoulders, on the nape of his neck. Crowley's hands on him like a tattoo. He had thought about a snake tattoo for quite some time.

“I...”, he started when Crowley's tongue started drawing on his neck.

“You all right, love? You want me to stop?”

“No, no, please, I just...”

He gulped. He wanted them to be naked, to feel his erection pressing against him.

“I want...”

He tightened his grip around Crowley's shoulders, started to kiss him again, hoping that Crowley would fish the words out his soul.

“You're trembling, love. Do we need to stop?”

“Nonsense, love.”

“Are you being honest with me?”

“I am, I swear, it's just – hard. But I'm all right, I'm fine. I'm more than fine, love. It's just...”

He didn't want to feel lost, he didn't want to surrender; but he needed to, it was the only possible solution. He looked at Crowley, and Crowley understood. (he was lucky, he was so, so lucky.)

“Lay down for me, angel, can you do it? I just want to kiss you better. Your legs have been neglected 'til now, it's not fair.”

“I – I think I can, I can do that.”

His body was a floating mess of chords – but then Crowley kissed his thigh and, with just that, was able to catch them all, tie them together in shining ribbons. His mouth was slow, not lazy but precise, covering every inch of his skin. He was shying away from his crotch, and Aziraphale thanked him for that. It was a tiny bit too early.

“Do you like it, love?”

“It's lovely,” he sighed between moans, timid, cloudy things.

“I love your tummy, y'know? So cute and soft.”

“O-oh, oh, really? It's – it's not -”

He looked down at his stomach, how full and round he was and how Crowley's was flat, taut over his hipbones.

(Daniel squeezed his belly, kneading it as he -)

Crowley bit his flashback away with hungry kisses. “I won't let him steal you from me.”

“Do you really like my stomach?”, asked Aziraphale, sensing the panic bubbling, sizzling.

“Oh,” Crowley smiled, “there's nothing I don't like about your body. I've wanted you since Eve explained to me what lust was.”

“Eve? I thought it was something demons would recognize instantly.”

“You know I suck at my job. Remember I didn't understand why Noah would need two of each animal?”

Aziraphale giggled as he stroked his face – his angular, strangely handsome face. He would look for cheekbones in every man he had fancied during the centuries. (it would be long before he would be aware of that, of how many of those men had high cheekbones, and sometimes freckles. He had fully realized that when he found the exact same freckle Crowley had between his eyebrows in one of his protégé.) “You were adorable.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure I was. Want to know the first thing I fell in love with about you?”

“Yes, please.” As much as he risked to sound cocky, those words were being helpful.

“Your nose.” Crowley kissed its tip. “It's so cute. And I wanted to kiss your throat. At first, before the humans invented something other than tunics, I couldn't see much of you and it was killing me, 'cause I knew there was something exceptional hidden under there. I was so desperate I would fixate on your ankles.” Crowley caressed him there, tracing the delicate bones with his fingertips, kissed them as Jesus washed his disciples' feet. “First time I slept, I dreamed about kissing your ankles for hours. Just that. I didn't hear your voice and I was so upset.”

Crowley kissed his cheek, playfully bit his collarbones. “And I love your hair. I love that humans chose its colour to depict their versions of angels. Not Gabriel's, not Michael's. Yours. And humans' favourite kind of angels is the chubby ones.”

“Crowley -”

“Listen to me, love. God gave you this body because She loved you.”

How hard it was for Crowley to talk about a love that wasn't for him any more, no matter how much he would despair about it; Aziraphale's love for him seized three times because of that, because Crowley needed it, deserved it the most.

“She loves you and wants you to enjoy your body and everything you put in it. And on it. You take such good care of your skin...”

Crowley trailed kisses up and down his arms. They felt good; so, so good, he was turning into jelly, cocooned in delicate joy and worship.

“... do you really mean it? There's – there's nothing wrong with it?”

(maybe it was true. Maybe it was really not his fault. Maybe.)

“Everything is how it should be. When I'm sad, I try to remember how your eyes light up when you laugh. I've always done it, and I've always had an amazing memory so it was easy. I'd know I was in serious shit when it didn't work. The one thing I hate about all your portraits is that no one had been capable to depict the exact hue of your irises, it'd drive me crazy. Sometimes I'd be so angry about it I threatened the painter who commit that crime.”

“You fiend,” Aziraphale smiled, delighted. “I do recall there was this bit of ghost story about a snake slithering around some artists' atelier...”

“Twas me, angel. The fiendest of fiends.”

“Oh, I love you so dearly,” Aziraphale dreamily said before giggling again. (it seemed like it again. Like something good, something sacred. New holiness, melt on them like candle wax.) He kissed Crowley, hands locked behind his head.

“I love you so much,” he murmured, voice deeper and stickier than before, “so, so much,” he tugged his hair while climbing his lap, “and I'd – I'd like you to fuck me – please, please...”

“You sure, love?”

“More than sure,” he miracled himself loose, started to grinding against Crowley's erection, “and I'm more than ready, please, please -”

Crowley, overwhelmed to the point of breaking in tears, hugged him tight before he would start sobbing. Then slowly, slowly, he entered in him, kissing him all the time. “I love you – I adore you, you're everything I've ever wanted, my love, my angel, my perfect angel...”

Aziraphale waited for the panic to seize him: id didn't. The sea was calm, the blizzard had come and gone. _Oh_ , he thought. _Oh_.

“Are you all right, my love?”, asked Crowley, voice fragmented.

“Yes, yes, I'm fine, I'm – oh, please, more, please -” he needed to be full, each and every one corner saturated by Crowley's scent, the weight of his fingerprints. Crowley rolled his hips and sank into him, sloppy kisses and love bites under his chin, under his Adam's apple.

(absolution. It was like that; absolution from the guilt. Just for a minute, just for a bit of time. It had not been his fault.)

“Can I -”

“Do whatever you want, Crowley, just please _more_ -”

Crowley laid him on the bed again, always with a hold on him (his skin never cold, never alone, always somehow linked to Crowley's), linked one of his thighs to his waist before starting to fuck him, his sharp hips slapping against him with a sticky sound, immoral and stitched with blood-red rubies.

(fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Such a lovely word. Teeth sinking into the lip, the wood sound of the k.)

Absolution: Crowley was humming new psalms in a secret language - their own, _God_ , their _own_ language, the one made of the looks they exchanged art the farmers market, the inside jokes told in a mixture of English and ancient Greek and Navajo, the fights over silly issues, the dates they still went on. Aziraphale sobbed, open and raw and glad to be open and raw after all the time he had been just raw but incapable of feeling anything. He was feeling every little detail as he was being carved onto his ribcage. He hid his face behind cupped hands, laughing a wretched sob that echoed off the walls. He was being made new, he was feeling his new birth.

“I love you, Crowley,” he giggled between tears, “deeply, endlessly.”

Crowley smiled at him, impossibly tender, his thrusts slow and languid. “Faster?”

“Please -”

“Just a bit. I want us to last.”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Nothing split him open, the noise tried to take him hostage but somehow Crowley intercepted it every single time. He couldn't stop crying and laughing.

(“ _Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._ ”, Thomas Stearns had written in a poem he didn't like. But he dared, he dared; the minutes were under Crowley's orders. They would not dare misbehave.)

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Crowley was hot and heavy and real. His broken “I love you”s were as many as the stars in the sky, too fierce for him to fight back. He accepted all of them, grateful. _Now I'm perfect_ , he thought. _I was never broken: a human-made me think I was, but I'm not. I'm hurting, but I'm healing. I'm whole, and Crowley made me perfect._

He latched onto Crowley with abandon.

//

The pink clouds of candyfloss Aziraphale was resting on were soft, light but sturdy enough to keep him stable. Crowley was leaving kisses on his arm and shoulder, as he was humming “ _Oh I want you, I want you, I want you, on a chair with a dead magazine, in the cave at the tip of the lily, in some hallway where love's never been,_ ”, little touches as delicate and bright as strawberry flowers that one day would bloom and his brain would be filled with summer fruit and the tranquil bottom of French lakes, full of new life and unknown treasures. 

“I love you, angel,” said Crowley with a lovestruck, syrupy voice, all of his features smooth and relaxed. He was stunning like this, his hair ruffled and skin flushed. Aziraphale cuddled tighter to him, wishing his body smaller, foldable, something Crowley could hide in his pocket.

“It won't be easy,” said Crowley quietly, playing with Aziraphale's fingers. Aziraphale couldn't look at him as he corrected him, “ _I_ won't be easy.”

Crowley pressed a kiss to his temple. “No,” he stated, steel-like yet warm, a well-used knife slicing through his self-destructive stubbornness. “It has nothing to do with you. We're cancelling every single plan we had for the rest of the month, by the way, 'cause you're getting the aftercare of your life. You're not to get out of the house without me, I have yet to decide about the bedroom.”

“Oh no!”, Aziraphale gasped in mock horror, a hand over the mouth like a 1920s actress, “I'm being kidnapped by a rogue demon! Oh, what is going to happen to poor little me? I am but an innocent angel, you brute!”

With a burst of hearty laughter, Crowley hugged him inhumanly tight, so much Aziraphale was pretty sure they were about to fuse, the thump-thump-thump of their hearts in tune with each other. 

“Oh yes, you're about to suffer the most horrible tortures Hell came up with.”

“Oh noooo...”, Aziraphale's chuckles melted under Crowley's tongue. They kissed and kissed until their lips were red and the music of the spheres rang around them.

 _It won't be easy_ , he thought, _but it will be all right. Sooner or later I will be all right_. 


End file.
